


And Would Be Lov'd Fain

by Nokomis



Series: holy sonnets [1]
Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Overwrought Victorian Fluff, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:17:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/pseuds/Nokomis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d expected the rope, and now that he’s alive, exhilaratingly <i>alive</i> and free and breathing in the salty air on the wrong side of the Atlantic, all that Ethan can think of is Vanessa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Would Be Lov'd Fain

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely Rainpuddle13, who introduced me to this show. <3 Title from John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 14, which is so very Vanessa Ives.

He’d expected the rope, and now that he’s alive, exhilaratingly _alive_ and free and breathing in the salty air on the wrong side of the Atlantic, all that he can think of is Vanessa.

Going back to England is madness, of course. Rusk knows his crimes, has probably been questioned by his father’s men at this point, but Ethan confessed in an attempt to right wrongs, and now… Now it’s clear that he’s done Miss Ives the greatest wrong by leaving her alone in that dark, empty house.

It’s simple enough to lose himself in the anonymity of New York City, the chaos and the constant influx of new arrivals masking his own movements. He’s already damned so it’s a simple thing to steal the things he needs for another cross-Atlantic journey, namely money, and enough clothes that it looks like he’s leaving, not fleeing. Clean-shaven and hair shorn, he looks very little like Ethan Chandler, entirely unlike Ethan Talbot, and he books passage under an wholly new name.

He does his best not to think of what he has done to escape, and how even his father’s considerable influence won’t be able to protect him, should he be caught. It doesn’t matter. His life here is done, he knows that for certain now, and he won’t allow the dark deeds and darker words that have transpired to have dominion over the remainder of his days. Inspector Rusk is a problem, undoubtedly. He spent the entire ten-day crossing to America watching Ethan like a hawk, like Ethan was going to burst through the bars of his cage and attack, and the dark hungry thing inside Ethan wished that the timing had been right, wished that he could somehow have rip that speculative look of Rusk’s face 

The ship to England will have docked before the next full moon. It’s a safe as he can manage, on such short notice, and there’s a dark, growing feeling deep within him that Miss Ives needs him, that he has to be in London. That he’s meant to be there.

(The words _Wolf of God_ echo through his dreams, sometimes, like a particularly haunting melody. _Lupus Dei, Lupus Dei_. He’s tried to ignore their implication, the sheer improbability of Vanessa’s prophecy including him, as though it were _fate_ , when Ethan does not want to believe in fate, doesn’t want to believe in anything beyond himself, no matter how many times he wakes up with a prayer on his lips.)

The journey back to England is sheer frustration. Ethan want the ship to move faster, for the ocean to be smaller, anything, to get him back to London with more haste. The feeling under his skin is alarmingly similar to the feeling under his nails, in his teeth, deep in his soul as the moon waxes closer and closer to fullness. He has to bite back snarls and curses from escaping when strangers approach him, and he’s left to his own devices for much of the journey.

Setting foot on shore in London feels like homecoming; Ethan tries to disregard the feeling as a fleeting fancy, because he knows even when he finds Vanessa, he won’t be safe here. Not with his father seething at nearly having Ethan back in his grasp, not with Rusk knowing so many of his secrets. It’s a disaster poised to happen, and Ethan wonders if Vanessa will feel like abandoning London and its dubious charms now that Sir Malcolm has returned to the vastness of Africa and facing his own demons.

(Ethan thinks of the cottage on the moors; thinks of how Miss Ives was purely _Vanessa_ there, even without the high-collared dresses and stiff posture that he’d first associated with her. Instead, she was something else -- freer, perhaps, but still possessing the same steely core of self-control and willpower that Ethan envied. His own control feels more like sand than steel; ever-shifting and slipping away from him with time as surely as sand slides through an hourglass.)

Greenwich Place is dark and cold when Ethan arrives. The kitchens are empty, with no fire burning in the hearth and no evidence of food left in the pantry. He goes to Miss Ives’ room anyway, and spends several long moments staring at the empty wall where the crucifix should hang, at the unmistakably holy shape writhing in the ashes.

He knows in his bones that Vanessa is lost, and it feels almost like words in a demon tongue are hanging in the air around him as he tries to _think_ , tries to decide where she would have gone. Sunlight filters through the window where he stood the last time he saw her, and her disappointment washes over him anew.

The letter he wrote is torn carefully in half and still lies on her vanity.

He does not linger at Greenwich Place. The house is all but haunted by the specters of its former residents and Ethan cannot quite bear thinking of Sembene. Not here, not yet. His presence already makes itself felt in Ethan’s darkest moments, was his constant companion whilst locked in that cage as he was taken to America, and now… Now Ethan needs to focus on Miss Ives, not his own guilt.

*

Of the three possibilities left in London who might know Miss Ives’ whereabouts, Victor Frankenstein is a safer bet than either Professor Lyle or Mr. Gray. Ethan has a certain reluctance to consult Mr. Gray on the matter -- it seems somewhat gauche to visit a former lover in search of a future one -- and Professor Lyle, while entertaining, cannot entirely be trusted. Ethan does not forget betrayals lightly, and while Mrs. Poole is undoubtedly dead (her blood was more sharply metallic than any Ethan had ever tasted; its taste lingered in the back of his throat for days. He was grateful for that, at least, he couldn‘t remember what Sembene‘s death had tasted like.) her daughter was unaccounted for.

He discovers Victor prone on the floor of his lodgings, a needle on the floor and vomit crusted on his shirt. Ethan has seen worse sights, but there’s something disheartening about it, as though Victor’s obvious intelligence should have shielded him from such indignities.

Victor awakens less than gracefully -- Ethan supposes the bucket of water he upended over him had something to do with that -- but confesses to having been out of touch with Miss Ives since the incident at Evelyn Poole’s mansion.

It’s unfair to hate Victor for this when Ethan abandoned her as well, but old familiar anger wells up within him anyway. 

“Her family home is an unlikely place,” Victor says thoughtfully. He has avoided Ethan’s eyes since he composed himself from his violent awakening. “Perhaps the moors?”

Vanessa’s enemies are dead or quelled for the moment; Ethan does not doubt the devil’s tenacity, but it had taken time for him to get a medium this time, and Vanessa had destroyed it. It would take time to find another.

Unless Vanessa let him in willingly. Ethan remembers that book, and remembers the look in Vanessa’s eyes after she had used its dark magic to commit murder. He does not want her left alone to despair while that sort of evil is nearby. 

(He does not know that she despairs; one of the darker parts of his soul hopes she does.)

Before he leaves, Victor finally looks him in the eye, and his voice tremors as he says, “Once you’ve retrieved Miss Ives… There’s a matter here that I need to discuss with you.”

Ethan has never seen such fear in the doctor’s face before.

“Tell me now.” The moon is close to full, and Ethan can hear its rasp in his voice.

Victor shakes his head. “It will require your full attention, and likely that of Miss Ives. It will wait.”

“When we return,” Ethan promises. Victor doesn’t look relieved; he looks even more ill.

*

When Ethan arrives at the cottage, smoke is drifting from the chimney like spirits escaping purgatory. 

Being away from London is a relief. The Mariner’s Inn looms heavily there, and the repercussions that he deserves lurk around every corner. He stands outside for a long, long time, watching the smoke furl against the gloomy sky, and tries to think of the words that will make Vanessa _understand_.

Finally admitting to himself that there are none, he strides to the door.

Vanessa answers after the second knock. She’s dressed simply, as she’s wont to do in the moors, and her hair is loose around her face. Even a simple greeting shrivels in his throat at the sight of her.

“Mr. Chandler,” she says, voice even and eyes wild. “I thought you were to hang.”

“Forgive me, Miss Ives,” Ethan rasps, “for worrying you.”

Her hand grasps the doorframe, knuckles white. “Consider yourself forgiven.” 

_For everything_ hangs in the air between them.

“I would beg your pardon,” Ethan says. He takes off his hat, more for something to do with his hands rather than courtesy, lest the temptation to reach out and pull Vanessa to him overcomes him. “For… For not notifying you. I was indisposed.”

“I made an inquiry with the Yard,” Vanessa admits. She makes no motion to invite him in, just watches him with those dark, wild eyes. “They said you were transported back to America, where you were to, as I mentioned, hang.”

The word hangs between them. Ethan knows he’s had the comfort of knowing that Vanessa was safe, that the devils and witches and dark spirits were momentarily at bay. She thought he was dead, or on his way to his death, with no true hope that he would ever return.

“It was unaccountably cruel of me to leave you like that,” he says. She doesn’t move; just keeps watching him as though she suspects he might disappear.

Or… 

Ethan takes a step forward, and Vanessa flinches, slightly. “Miss Ives. _Vanessa_. It’s me.”

“How do I know that? By all accounts, Mr. Chandler has met his end at the hands of a hangman.” 

Ethan’s focus has been on the hand gripping the doorframe, but now he realizes that Vanessa’s other hand is hidden in the folds of her skirt. He suspects that she’s clutching a pistol there, quite possibly one of his own.

“Vanessa, I don’t know who you think I am,” Ethan says, though he has a pretty good guess, and the thought chills him to the bone, “but it’s really me. I was sent to America, yes, but the plan was never to hang me. My father…” He doesn’t know how to summarize the situation with his father, how his influence could reach across continents, why Ethan fought so hard to escape. “My father doesn’t want me dead. Surely the incident with Mr. Roper showed you that.”

The rough-hewn cross is still outside, and he doesn’t even regret the bit of Vanessa’s soul that was chipped away when she sank that knife into the man. She had been fierce and beautiful and protective, and it made him want to rip apart her enemies and tear asunder any who even dreamt of hurting her.

“I will not give you my soul,” Vanessa says, refusing to be swayed. “Mr. Chandler is dead.”

Sembene thought Vanessa would share the load, if Ethan shared his secrets with her. It was time. “No more secrets, Vanessa. You’re right, my name isn’t Mr. Chandler. I performed under a nom de guerre, to further complicate my father’s search for me. My name is Ethan Talbot.” She makes no reaction to the name, though her expression softens, as if by laying his soul bare, he’s managing to convince her that he isn’t an illusion. 

That he isn’t a malicious spirit, or something far worse.

So he does the only thing he can think of, to prove his identity. He offers up the same prayer in Latin that he’d used to exorcise her, the words spilling off his tongue as easily as they had in his youth.

The change in Vanessa is as pronounced as the first time he found himself praying at her in desperation. Her grip on the doorframe loosens, her hand falls to her side, flexing as if the blood was just returning. Her jaw unclenches, her shoulders slump, and most importantly -- most tellingly -- her eyes soften, lose the mad gleam, and she looks… she looks lost.

“Vanessa,” Ethan says, reaching out for her. He takes her hands, and she wasn’t clutching a gun in her hidden fist, but a crucifix, wound tightly through her fingers. “Vanessa, it’s me, I was wrong to leave, _it’s me._ ”

And he wraps his arms around her, holds her as close as a secret, and tension he didn’t realize he had eased from his shoulders when he felt her close.

_Home_ , snarls that dark part of him that he tries so hard to suppress, and Ethan leans his cheek to the top of her head, presses a kiss against her hair, and keeps her close.

*

The cottage is unchanged. Ethan had relived their quietly domestic days here in his head a thousand times on the ship, full of regret and fear and longing, and now he’s back, and the air still tastes the same and the same herbs dry hanging from the rafters and Vanessa’s skin still looks unearthly and luminescent in the firelight. 

“You committed horrors,” Vanessa says, as brutal and honest as she’s ever been, “and I understand that you meant to atone.”

“You saw what I become,” Ethan says. “What you don’t know is how long the list of my dead is, how many have found death at my claws and my fangs, and how the beast hungers for more. I thought…” He trails off, thoughts jumbled, and stares down at his hands. “Sembene was my friend.”

“He was our friend, and I lament his loss,” Vanessa says. “But compounding that loss by sacrificing yourself was cruel and selfish.”

Her hands envelop his own, and he looks up at her. She’s moved closer to him, both sitting on the bench, and her leg is pressed tight against his own.

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m really fucking sorry, Vanessa.”

She quietly smiles, almost to herself, and says, “I’m not quite sure how I mistook you, Mr Chand---” She stops herself before calling him by his stage name. “Ethan.”

“Say that again for me, darling,” Ethan says, trying for teasing but missing the mark. Vanessa’s hands squeeze his tighter. “Have you been…” There’s no real word for what’s happening to Vanessa. “Hunted?”

“It’s so hard to tell the difference between hunted and haunted,” Vanessa says, leaning her head against his shoulder. He untangles their fingers so he can wrap his arm around her. “I wake in the night and I don’t know if it’s nightmares or night comers. I long for safety.”

He remembers her words, the day he left, and says, “I won’t leave you. Not now, not tonight.” 

Not ever. Ethan knows this, even the snarling beast within knows this. His life is surrendered to Vanessa, willingly and gladly.

“I am grateful,” Vanessa says quietly, and Ethan looks at her, pulls away enough that he can trace her cheek lightly. 

“I thought of you,” Ethan says quietly. “On the ship, there wasn’t much else to do, and I spent that time, with Rusk watching me like a cat with a particularly interesting mouse, thinking about our days here and wishing they’d had a better outcome. We’re dangerous, Vanessa, I heard you say that a thousand times, and I agree. We need to be, and we’re more dangerous together.”

“Are you proposing to fight the devil for me, Ethan?” Vanessa asks, delight giving her words a lightness that he hasn’t heard since…

Since the last time they sat here, in this cottage.

“If that’s what it takes,” he promises.

She smiles at him before it twists, and she says, perhaps after remembering another conversation they’d had before this fire, “And if, in the course of that fight, I take a life? If I use my gifts in dark and terrible ways? Will you try to protect me from myself, from my own darkness?”

“No,” Ethan says. “You’ve seen, now, why I felt that so keenly. I give in to my darker urges, and I wake up covered in blood with more stolen lives weighing me down. I know the cost. And now you know that cost as well, and it’s protected you as well. I will not take your claws from you, Vanessa. You need them.”

Only then does she lean in, and press a gentle kiss to his lips like a leap of faith. It’s over before Ethan can do more than savor the sensation of _Vanessa_.

“Will you stay with me tonight, Ethan Talbot?” she asks. There is no uncertainty in her own voice, and surely she knows that he’s hers, will do whatever she asks, will battle hell itself without her even having to ask.

“I will stay with you as long as you’ll have me, Vanessa Ives.” 

“Then stay,” she says, meeting his eyes directly. There are still ghosts between them, still horrors to face and demons to fight, but Ethan thinks it could be so simple to just stay here with her forever.

Before he can get lost in her, he remembers Victor’s terror, and everything that London holds.

“Tomorrow, we must discuss new dangers,” he says, sliding his hand into her hair and marveling at its softness. “that our dear doctor is privy to.”

“Tomorrow,” Vanessa agrees, and this time, the kiss is not so gentle.


End file.
